


Under the Skin

by Nny



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, Claiming, M/M, Wrists, wrist porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles almost swallows his tongue as Derek grabs his wrist, brushes his thumb against the fragile skin there. There's a moment of stillness, then Derek's head jerks up, eyes wide and nostrils flaring.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Stiles snatches his hand back and walks away.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Skin

Derek smacks Stiles' hand away, knuckles hard points of pain against the inside of his wrist, and Stiles yelps and snatches his hand back against his chest. Derek's claws bunch in the fabric of his shirt and haul him, protesting, away from the tree and then dump him abruptly, disrupting his already fragile balance enough that he lands on his ass among last year's dead leaves. 

"Hey!" is all he gets out before Derek's picked up a rock and thrown it, hard, at where the crossbow bolt's oddly shaped head is buried in the trunk of a tree; the resulting explosion has Stiles scuttling backwards like a crab. 

" _Think_ ," Derek growls between long canines, and then runs off to join the rest of the pack.

~*~

"What the hell happened?" Scott asks, examining the purpling mark that extends past his pulse point right to the base of his thumb. Stiles kind of loves him for the instant defensiveness.

"Nothing," he says, shrugging. "I was being an idiot, you know how it goes." 

Later, leaving, Derek stops him for a second. 

"You're okay?" The question sounds weird in his mouth. There are emotions he's still out of practice with. 

"Yeah, I - " 

Stiles almost swallows his tongue as Derek grabs his wrist, brushes his thumb against the fragile skin there. There's a moment of stillness, then Derek's head jerks up, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. 

Stiles snatches his hand back and walks away.

~*~

He dreams of fingers around his wrist, of teeth.

(It's not the first time; this isn't how it usually goes).

~*~

"Mr Stilinski!"

Stiles hunches deeper into his sweatshirt and mouths a few choice words at Scott before turning to face Mr Harris, who's looking kind of shifty, waiting for the other students to leave before coming over and closing the door. 

"Your wrist, Mr Stilinski." He leaves it there, like that's everything he wanted to say; Stiles exaggerates his incomprehension. 

"If anyone has - " Mr Harris clears his throat, and there's something sickly amusing, watching how uncomfortable he clearly is. "If you need to talk to anyone - "

"Oh _god_ , no. _No_." Stiles pulls his sleeve over his right hand. "It's not - it was an accident." 

Mr Harris just stares at him, and Stiles can just picture the meetings with the guidance counselor, phone calls to his dad... 

"Seriously, it's just - lacrosse, you know." 

There's relief on his teacher's face, a quick flash of it, and Stiles really hates having to re-evaluate people's humanity once he's written them off, it always complicates things. 

"I'm always talking," Stiles says. "You think I could keep something like that to myself?" 

"You're always talking, Mr Stilinski," Harris says, opening the classroom door for him, "I'm never sure how much you _say_."

~*~

peter offered me the bite

Stiles types it into his phone in the darkness of his room; he'd begged off practice because of his wrist. 

maybe i should have said yes

And Scott's co-captain, and high off practice, and surrounded by the admiration of the team, and it shouldn't hurt this much when Scott responds.

maybe

Shit. _Shit_.

~*~

Stiles switches back to his right hand to jerk off that night and holy god, but it hurts.

He's never come so hard.

~*~

It fades through the klutz rainbow, red, bluish purple, sickly yellow-green. It fades eventually, they always do, and pretty much as soon as it happens he's antsy again, waiting for something to happen, throwing himself into lacrosse practice with renewed energy - one time he even takes Scott off his feet.

"Sorry," he says breathlessly, holding out his right hand to pull him up, "sorry." 

"No problem," Scott says, and leans in a little, conspiratorial. "It's already healed up." 

Stiles guesses werewolves don't need the reminder that they're human. 

In the showers he takes a little longer than usual, fingers light over the red marks his lacrosse pads have pressed into his skin. 

"Hey, Stilinski! You coming?" 

"Yeah. Sure." 

He cinches his watch two holes tighter as he's getting dressed and it helps a little.

~*~

Unexpected werewolves in his room barely raise his pulse any more.

"Research?" he asks, slinging his bag over to beside his bed, opening his laptop and flexing his fingers over the keyboard. 

"Selkies," Derek says, still standing by the window, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. He drifts over, though, as Stiles' fingers start flying; three websites in and Derek's hand is braced on the back of Stiles' chair. 

"Hey, hey, wait," Derek says, and Stiles grins and follows the next link anyway. 

"Not my fault you can't keep up, old man." 

" _Stiles_." Derek growls and reaches for the mouse, fingers just brushing against the back of his forearm and Stiles stiffens, abrupt and obvious. In an instant Derek's across the room, hand against the window. Stiles swallows hard, dry throat clicking in the sudden silence. 

"I'll - I'll let you know what I find," he says, and Derek nods and leaves without a word. Stiles sits with bowed head for a second or two before the clicking of keys resumes. 

That answers that.

~*~

A hand cracks against his cheek and Stiles forces his eyes open again.

"Don't you dare." Lydia's voice is shaking, and Stiles kind of wants to smack whoever made her sound like that, a hold-over. "Don't you _dare_ , Stiles Stilinski," and damn. He'd smack himself in the face if his arms would only work. 

Things start to register: snarls and yelping in the distance; the rough forest floor digging into his back; the most unholy pain he's ever felt in his side. He makes a noise, involuntary, and Lydia's teeth bite down on her glossy lower lip, fingers tensing around Stiles' hand until the pain almost registers over the clamor from his side. 

"They're coming," she says, "they'll be here." and Stiles tries to squeeze her hand back, reassuring.

"It's - okay," he croaks, and that makes her face crumple like nothing else has. 

"Stiles!" Scott yells in the distance. 

"Over here!" Lydia yells back, and the pack come crashing towards them through the trees. It's chaos, movement, and Stiles can't keep track until Derek lifts him up and he cries out, wrapping bloodstained fingers around Derek's wrist and gripping hard enough to bruise, for a little while.

~*~

The nurse keeps glaring at him for moving, gesturing, reassuring his dad with the energy of his speech (in the only way he can). He glares back as she fiddles with the line in the back of his hand.

"You'll end up covered in bruises," she tuts, and he rolls his eyes. 

"Imagine that," he says dryly. 

(His dad comes in the next day looking murderous after being pulled aside by someone from child services. He won't let Stiles talk to the staff any more).

~*~

Of course the first time he sees Derek again is in his bedroom. The rest of the pack have shuffled through his hospital room, left flowers and comics and candy in their wake, but no sign of Derek until the blur of motion, the sudden proximity that has Stiles staggering back against the door and clutching his side. The way Derek flinches back from his movement is almost funny.

"Hey, Derek," Stiles says, voice strained. He pushes away from the door and Derek backs off, going to stand by the desk. Stiles snorts. "It's okay," he says, "I got it."

"What are you - ?" Derek starts, his voice angry. "You almost _died_. You can't - "

"Pretend to be pack?" Stiles shuffles forward and lowers himself gingerly onto his bed. "Yeah, you're not the only one who wishes I'd taken Peter's bite." 

"His _what?_ " Derek snarls, and he's across the room before Stiles can blink, crowding over Stiles where he's sprawled backward on his bed. Stiles pulls his arm into his chest, reflexive, and Derek's hand darts out to grab his wrist, thumb unerringly finding the center of where the bruise once was and digging in. Stiles hisses, reaction inevitable, and he watches as Derek's nostrils flare; it's not like he can hide his arousal from a werewolf. This time there's no sudden retreat; instead Derek ducks his head closer to Stiles, eyes falling half-closed. 

Derek's fingers close a little tighter around Stiles' wrist and he doesn't need sharp sense to feel how fast Stiles' pulse is hammering against the thin skin there. Derek looks up to meet Stiles' eyes, his pupils impossibly blown; the glacial movement of his hand as he lifts Stiles' wrist is one long question, permission granted and reaffirmed with every moment Stiles doesn't say no. He shivers instead, involuntary, when Derek's lips part, when Derek's breath heats his skin. 

"Do you want the bite?" he asks, voice low, gaze unwavering. 

Stiles wordlessly shakes his head. 

"Do you acknowledge," Derek says, a thread of something darker winding through his voice, "that it is _my_ question to ask?" 

Stiles nods, but that doesn't feel like enough. 

"Yes," he croaks. "Shit, Derek, _please_ \- " He's not even sure what he's asking for. 

" _Stiles_ ," Derek grits out, then his lips are against skin, instantly overwriting anything Peter had done. Stiles groans as Derek's mouth moves, as he bares very human teeth against his wrist, as he breathes out against the pulse point and then moves closer to suck a bruise to the surface of pale skin.

~*~

"Mr Stilinski!"

Mr Harris' voice cracks across the room like a whip and Stiles starts, snapping his attention back from the window to the chemical equation chalked on the board. 

"Sorry."

"While you are in this room, Mr Stilinski, your attention is on me at all times, is that clear? You belong to me." 

Stiles presses a thumb into the bruise on his wrist, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read, I'm afraid, because the friend who's volunteered is helping with something much longer, so please let me know if you find any errors or unintentional Britishisms. :D 
> 
> [Come say hi on Tumblr!](http://slothturtle.tumblr.com/).


End file.
